


i bet you kiss your knuckles (right before they touch my cheek)

by rottenboy (TechnicalTragedy)



Series: arrangement [2]
Category: LazyTown
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Deepthroating, Humiliation, M/M, Rough Sex, Scratching, Self-Hatred, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 02:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9102730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicalTragedy/pseuds/rottenboy
Summary: Íþróttaálfurinn is trying to be kind and it's not what Glanni wants.





	

**Author's Note:**

> it's cha boi back again w that gross shit, with less gross and more sad, also idk if i got all the tags but once again violence is just to be safe
> 
> title from "trouble" by halsey

"Glæpur," he says. Íþróttaálfurinn's eyes are filled with this incomprehensible, incalculable sadness and he's just staring at Glanni like there's nothing else in the world he could be doing. His voice is rough like he's been eating sand and he pauses, his lips thinning out while he considers something beyond Gianni's understanding. "Your nose doesn't look well."

Glanni blinks. "You broke it, last time," he says.

Íþróttaálfurinn nods, something like guilt flashing on his face, overriding that damned sadness for only a moment before it comes back. It doesn't feel good, to see Íþróttaálfurinn like this. Glanni is sure the world must be ending. "I had a bad day," he says, like it's an excuse.

"Isn't that the only kind of day you have?" Glanni says. He wants Íþróttaálfurinn to be angry, smug, anything other than what he is.

"Maybe it is," Íþróttaálfurinn says rather than snarl at Glanni for getting snarky with him. He reaches out to run his fingers over the crooked bridge of Gianni's nose, drawing a sharp hiss from as it throbs under the touch. Íþróttaálfurinn takes his hand back, swallowing thickly as he looks away from Glanni.

Glanni steps close to him, right into his personal space. "Can we get this over with?" he says.

Íþróttaálfurinn wets his lips and puts distance between himself and Glanni. "I don't want you," he says, and Glanni is sure he's meant to be relieved, but the words hit him like a bag of bricks to the stomach.

"No, I- You have to want me," Glanni says.

This gets some of that familiar rage, that dark glint in Íþróttaálfurinn's eye. "I don't. You know better than to talk back to me."

Glanni closes the gap between them again. "I do," he says. "Does it make you mad? Do you want to knock me around a little? Make me blow you until my jaw is sure to ache for days?" He's desperate, he needs Íþróttaálfurinn to want him because if he doesn't, what the fuck is the point? He'll just go back to jail, or this stupid elf will kill him. Glanni knows what will happen once he's outlived his usefulness, and he plans on making sure that day won't come until he's good and ready for it.

Before his eyes, Íþróttaálfurinn's anger subsides again, and Glanni just doesn't know what to do. So he slaps Íþróttaálfurinn, feeling fear clench his stomach as the elf's hand shoots out to grab him by the collar.

Íþróttaálfurinn hauls Glanni to the wall, forcing him against it and leaning in until their noses nearly touch. "That was a mistake, Glæpur."

He pushes, and Glanni goes down willingly.

Sure enough, Íþróttaálfurinn pulls his flaccid cock from his pants and orders Glanni curtly to get him hard. It's no easy feat, not with Íþróttaálfurinn actively resisting his attempts at using his hands and slapping him every so often just to display his control of the situation, but Glanni manages to get Íþróttaálfurinn hard enough that it feels familiar.

Once he reaches that conclusion, Íþróttaálfurinn comes to the same one, and proceeds to shove his cock down Glanni's throat without a breath of warning. He puts a hand on Glanni's neck to feel his cock in it.

"I give you an out and you don't take it," he says. He thrusts hard and holds Glanni there, unable to breathe. "That means you get punished, Glæpur. You know what happens when you're bad." He pulls out and takes a step back. "Take off your clothes."

Glanni hurries to do so, but he's barely fast enough, Íþróttaálfurinn pushing him into his hands and knees almost before the catsuit is fully off.

Íþróttaálfurinn sticks a finger wet with something into Glanni, adds another too soon, and then he's pushing his cock in without pause.

This is more like what Glanni is used to. Íþróttaálfurinn has one hand pressed to the center of his back, keeping his busted face pushed down into the pavement, the other gripping his hip so tight Glanni knows there will be bruises blooming over his skin later. Íþróttaálfurinn is fucking him raw, hard enough to hurt, and Glanni is just glad they're back to normal.

He keens as Íþróttaálfurinn's fingernails drag down his back, surely leaving welts in their wake. That same hand slaps Glanni's ass, then again, and he returns to pushing Glanni back so his chest is touching the ground.

Íþróttaálfurinn is cursing under his breath, some of it in Elvish, some not, but he hasn't addressed Glanni directly, so he knows that no thanks is necessary quite yet. Glanni spreads his legs further, knees scraping on the pavement. Íþróttaálfurinn grunts in response, hitching Glanni's hips up further to give himself a better angle to fuck Glanni. He likes to watch his dick when he has sex, Glanni's learned, but not quite as much as he likes to leave Glanni wrecked and ruined but craving more.

He does want more. It's revolting, humiliating, but Glanni lives for this, needs this.

Íþróttaálfurinn growls, slamming into Glanni harder. "You slut," Íþróttaálfurinn says. "You love this, love me fucking you so hard you won't be able to walk. You're pathetic, Glæpur, you're disgusting."

Glanni gasps as Íþróttaálfurinn moves in a way that brushes his prostate, sending heat rushing down his spine. "I'm sorry, thank you," Glanni says, just to hear Íþróttaálfurinn growl again.

"Shut up," he says. "You don't speak unless I tell you."

The elf buries himself in Glanni, grinding his hips against his ass with a guttural groan. He drives Glanni down further, to the point of pain, then readjusts and fucks him deeper, to the point where Glanni swears he feels it in his throat. Íþróttaálfurinn scratches and squeezes Glanni, digging deep enough that Glanni feels blood, but all he can do is moan and take it.

"Tell me," Íþróttaálfurinn says, movements erratic and voice half off the edge of the cliff.

"Thank you," Glanni whimpers. "Thank you, Íþróttaálfurinn."

Íþróttaálfurinn's hand grabs Glanni's hair, pulling him up off his hands. His other arm curls around Glanni's waist, holding him up while Íþróttaálfurinn continues to fuck him, now using his teeth to break the skin of Glanni's shoulders and neck. "Keep going," he breathes between bites.

Glanni scrabbles for purchase against the wal, only able to press his very fingertips against it for added support. "Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you," he chants, dropping to a whisper as Íþróttaálfurinn starts to come, fingers curling hard into Glanni while his teeth sink deep.

Their breathing rings out across the alleyway, loud and heavy while Íþróttaálfurinn wrings the last of his pleasure out.

Glanni repeats his thanks until Íþróttaálfurinn pulls out with a sloppy sound, but the elf doesn't let him go. They stay in their pose for long moments, Íþróttaálfurinn pressed tight against Glanni's back, come dripping down Glanni's thighs. The silence around them is worrisome, but Glanni is sure that the worst part is over.

"I shouldn't stoop to your level," Íþróttaálfurinn finally says, soft near Glanni's ear.

Glanni is still hard, aching, but he knows better than to respond or try to take care of his problem while Íþróttaálfurinn remains. The elf's fingers stroke idly over the skin of Glanni's hip, an invasively tender expression.

"Don't meet me next week," Íþróttaálfurinn says.

He breaks away, Glanni slumping onto his hands, feeling cold. "And the week after that?" he says.

Glanni thinks the quiet that follows is what armageddon must sound like. "I don't want to see you anymore," Íþróttaálfurinn says. It almost seems painful for him to say.

"Will you turn me in?" Glanni asks, because he has to, at this point.

"No."

Glanni gulps, only a sharp sparkle of relief managing to break through the cold that feels like is enveloping his bones. "Thank you," he breathes.

Íþróttaálfurinn retreats. "Don't thank me," he says. The alley grows still, and Glanni knows he's alone.

His erection is wilted, so Glanni slips back into his catsuit, ignoring his stinging injuries. He'll take care of those back at the motel. Right now he feels like shit, knows he looks like it, and if he was trashier he'd pass out in this alley. As it is, he starts to limp through the streets.

Maybe he should be happy about Íþróttaálfurinn's sudden change of heart. He won't get reported and that alone should make him ecstatic. If he were in the shape to do so, he should be jumping with joy, both metaphorically and physically. The whole walk back to the motel he tries to make himself feel like anything other than a piece of shit stuck to Íþróttaálfurinn's boot, like someone who doesn't deserve to have to submit to his enemy every week and come home with bruises and breaks and open, weeping wounds.

But he isn't, and he knows it.


End file.
